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Grief was love with nowhere to go.
he was struck by the wisdom of Atticus Finch: “you can’t begin to understand a person . . . until you climb inside his skin.”
“It’s one thing the dementia hasn’t stolen from us. When memory goes, you see, all that’s left is emotion. What we have for breakfast or where we parked the car or what year it is doesn’t matter, but we still feel who we love—and we love each other very, very much.” She leaned in closer to Fred. “People always say that the magnificent love you see in movies doesn’t exist,” she whispered. “It actually does.” But Fred already knew that.
Over the next few months, her remembering him became rarer. Every visit, he wondered if it would be the last day she’d know him. It was like watching someone slowly disappear. Cruelly the body remained, a taunting illusion, making you believe they were right in front of you when in fact they were possessed by an imposter, filled with rage, grief or panic. A torturous show for the audience of loved ones.
Fred had learned all the tips and tricks over the years: never argue, go with the flow; never shame, instead distract; never condescend, always encourage. All the while, his heart was breaking.
“Feelings are like flatulence: better out than in, that’s what I always say.”
“You see, we aren’t just here for a wedding. We all know what a wedding is, and most people know what romance is. The lucky ones even know what being in love is. But love that lasts a lifetime—well, that’s something very few get to experience. Love is . . . about picking someone up and never, ever putting them down again, no matter how heavy things become.” Fred took another quick sip of champagne before continuing. “Sometimes in life we wish we had a crystal ball to see the future. Where will we be? What will we be doing? Well, I don’t have a crystal ball, but I strongly suspect that sixty or
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“Their promise today is to make that decision to love every day, to care for each other no matter what. And I know for a fact that Val—that they—will keep that promise faithfully for the rest of their lives.”
“Oh, Albie, my love, my beautiful, beautiful husband. I never dreamt that my life could have been this good. That I could ever have felt so cherished. It’s all because of you. I will love you until the day I die, my darling, my sweetheart.”
Dad’s face livid with anger again and again and again. But was it anger? Or had it been fear, or even shame, this whole time?
Hannah ran her fingers through his silver hair, the touch carrying a memory that made his eyes sting. No one had done that since Dawn. Until he was widowed, Fred never realized that he’d taken physical touch for granted—yet it meant so much. How many millions of other people were going without hugs?
“At least we can laugh at ourselves. People often ask me about the secret to living a long, happy life. I think that’s it—not taking things too seriously.”
“It’s amazing what the brain can hold on to, and the power of music.” He pictured his dear mum at the piano playing “Für Elise” by heart, when she couldn’t recognize her own husband. If only there was a way of making loved ones into melodies so they, too, could be remembered.
She hasn’t been an easy child. She was diagnosed with anxiety and severe sensory processing disorder this year.” Fred looked at her blankly. “She used to have big mood swings. Bedtimes and getting her to school were a nightmare. It was hard on us all.
“Asking for help isn’t failing, you know—it’s refusing to fail.”
Anna left an imminent career in medicine to follow her heart into her grandfather’s nursing home, where she became the social support coordinator, taking great delight in challenging assumptions and shaking up the usual program. When injury left her unable to continue working in aged care, she began to write about it, channeling her experience and love for older people onto the page.
I love this.
